


Prohibited

by Deeranger



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Charles Being Concerned, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Difficult Decisions, Emotional Hurt, Forbidden Love, Gay, Hopeful Ending, Love, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Poor Charles, Poor Erik, Sad and Happy, Secret Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 13:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8626462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deeranger/pseuds/Deeranger
Summary: In a smoky speakeasy in old Brooklyn Charles is working as a bartender for some furtive gentlemen. Knowing his clientele better than most Charles is always happy to lend an ear - and one of the regular mobsters, Erik Lehnsherr, is particularly interesting to him. And not because of the stories he can tell. Desperately trying to hide his crush, Charles does his best to stay neutral and in control. But when he suddenly finds himself in the middle of a mob showdown, worrying about Erik's safety, everything is turned upside down. And he has to cast aside his fear in order to find answers.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thacmis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thacmis/gifts).



The jukebox was playing "All Over Nothing at All" by Nora Bayes quietly in the corner while low talking and clinking of glasses filled the smoky room. Charles was polishing cognac glasses behind the counter, carefully making sure that each of them was spotless before putting them on the shelf. After all he would prefer that Bill Lovett and his men stayed happy and didn't complain too much about the establishment or its workers. Charles very well knew that even though the speakeasy bled cash every monthly pay day it was also essential for its survival. The White Hand Gang might be brutal both to both people and interior in here, but at least they made sure that no one else practiced extortion on the establishment or made any kind of trouble - or worse, ratted on the place. The Prohibition was taking its toll on the country and places like this were in high demand but also taboo. Putting the checkered dish towel over his shoulder Charles lifted his glance slightly and looked out on the clientele through the thick fog of cigarette smoke. It was only nine o'clock in the evening and not many of the gang members had shown up yet, only about a handful. One of them sat on the other side of the counter on one of the tall bar stools as usual, sipping on some bourbon while reading the New York Times. Discretely Charles looked at him shortly. He admired this man's sense of style, his blue silk suit looking crisp and flawless as always. A burgundy tie made the white shirt under the suit seem even whiter and his hair was perfectly groomed, combed back and slick with Brilliantine. Charles wondered how much an outfit like that had to cost and thought of his own humble clothes - dark brown Corduroy working pants with a high waistband and suspenders along with a plain, white linen shirt. He could never afford a suit like that, he thought. He couldn't help but let his gaze linger a little on the blue silk, admiring the texture of the luxurious fabric. Charles then looked at the man's face, lit by the lamps in the ceiling as dusk was settling outside in Brooklyn's streets, hidden behind the thick plank walls. Like always he looked focused while reading the paper, his handsome features only accentuated by the lamp light from above. His long and slender fingers were turning a page when he suddenly looked up at Charles, apparently noticing that he was being watched. Shyly Charles immediately cast down his glance, cursing himself a little in his mind as he grabbed the kitchen towel and started to polish the wooden counter top soaking up the few drops of spilled alcohol here and there. How long had he been glaring at the man? Even though he knew that they had established some sort of friendship in the past few months, he didn't at all need him to know how much he actually liked him. That would be a disaster of proportions, he thought, and polished the counter a little harder. He wondered what would happen if boss Lovett found out that he had a different taste than most men. A different taste than what was accepted. Swallowing Charles scrubbed the counter as he thought over the various scenarios that could occur should Lovett or one of his men find out. It probably wouldn't be pretty. He could already hear the mocking laughter and his vivid imagination almost allowed him to taste blood in his mouth from imaginary fists pummeling him. He shuddered a little. 

"You'll wear it down," the man across the counter suddenly said. Charles nearly jumped by the sudden outburst and froze, clenching the dish towel. Carefully he looked at the man. 

"What...?" Charles asked, confusion painted on his face. 

"The wood. You'll wear it down," he said with a small smile hidden in the corner of his mouth. Charles' jaw dropped slightly and he managed to let out a small, insecure laugh. He immediately picked up the dish towel and flung it across his shoulder, determined to let it stay there for a while. Across the counter the man's blue eyes were shimmering in the lamp light and he looked over at the other bartender, Kevin, who was correcting the bottles on the shelves, making the labels face the room properly. 

"What does a man have to do to get a drink around here?" he then said and folded the newspaper resolutely. His voice was stern, yet there was a small undertone of humor in it as well. Charles quickly glanced down at his glass. It was empty. 

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Lehnsherr," Charles said a little shakily and immediately grabbed the glass, putting it away under the counter and grabbing a new, clean one. He then hesitated, unsure if he should pour the same drink once more or if he wanted another one this time. 

"How many times have I told you to call me Erik?" the man then asked, a taunting shimmer in his eyes as he said it. He seemed to very well know that he was an intimidating man and he was using it to full extent. Apparently he found it quite amusing to see people squirm with insecurity as to if he was being serious and threatening or if he was only joking. Frozen for a second or two Charles pondered which one it was this time. 

"Umm... Many times. I'm sorry, Mr... I mean, I'm sorry, Erik," he blurted out, feeling like he could just vanish into the floor in a pool of nervous goo. Apparently Erik picked up on it and the look on his face softened a little. 

"Come on, Charles. You know we're all buddies here, lighten up!" he grinned and nodded towards the glass in Charles' hand. 

"I'd like another bourbon, please," he then said and Charles nodded, snapping out of it.

"Of course. Coming right up, Erik," he said - this time with a smile - while Erik unfolded the newspaper, sliding it across the counter towards the two bartenders. 

"Seems like we've got ourselves a new president now," Erik said with a cocked eyebrow. Kevin and Charles immediately came closer and looked at the paper, scanning the front page carefully. The date of the paper was today, August 3rd 1923. Incredulous they stared at the semi-wrinkled newspaper. The headline read: "President Harding dies suddenly; stroke of apoplexy at 7:30P.M.; Calvin Coolidge is president". Charles' mouth dropped open slightly.

"That's horrible," he said and Erik let out a small huff, indicating that he didn't care much. Charles frowned a little. He didn't know much about politics, but he did know that Harding had been corrupt and responsible for scandals such as the Teapot Dome and the Ohio Gang. Scratching himself behind the ear Charles looked at Erik as he lifted up his glass of bourbon.

"To the president, dead and alive!" he said with a smirk and raised the glass a little further into the air before swallowing the golden liquid in one gulp. There were some approving murmurings among the men behind Erik and the sound of clinking glasses intensified a little as they toasted quietly. Charles scanned the room, making sure that everyone was content and not in need of anything before settling his glance on Erik once more. 

"Care for another drink, Erik?" Charles then asked, fully aware that the glass was empty this time. Carefully correcting his sleeve which had a tiny, almost invisible, wrinkle on it from leaning against the counter top Erik looked up at Charles with a skew grin. 

"Are you trying to get me drunk?" Erik asked and tilted his head slightly. Charles thought he could almost feel the man's glance burn his skin as a slight shade of magenta rose to his cheeks. Fidgeting with the end of the dish towel Charles didn't quite know what to do with himself or what Erik could possibly mean with that question. Then Erik let out a small laugh and looked Charles up and down, almost curiously.

"You seem awfully nervous today, Charles. Are you alright?" he asked, this time in a softer voice and with a genuinely interested look in his eyes. Charles ran a hand through his hair as he let out a small, half-hearted laugh. How he wished that everything was alright. How he wished that Erik felt the way he did. That the feelings Charles had towards him were.... mutual. Biting his lip he tried shaking off the thoughts that kept haunting him.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine... Just a bit tired, that's all," he said, trying to make the smile on his lips a convincing one. He hadn't told a complete lie - after all, he was tired. Beyond tired. Again he had been lying awake for days, lost in thoughts about the impossible. Daydreaming about a utopian life with Erik where his love for him was not a burden but affection reciprocated. Lovely, impossible dreams. Followed by awake nightmares of the consequences it could have should he somehow lower his guard and spill the beans. Charles swallowed. He had been so happy that Erik had started to show up here at the speakeasy a couple of hours early every Friday, just sitting at the bar and casually conversing with him. Sometimes he even showed up on a normal work day to sit and sip a glass of bourbon or the occasional cognac. This place seemed to relax the otherwise busy man and Charles was happy that it did, him being at the receiving end of Erik's thoughts on work, troubles, politics and personal problems and trifles - gladly lending an ear the way a proper bartender should. Yet what had seemed like a gift in the beginning had almost turned into agony, because the more time Charles spent in Erik's company the more he realized how much he longed for him... and it hurt. 

"Work's riding you hard, huh? Maybe you're the one who needs a drink," Erik said with compassion in his eyes and a little smile decorating his lips. Charles rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a small sigh of frustration. A drink sure would be nice but they both knew that drinking was not allowed during working hours for a bartender- even an illegal one. His boss was very strict when it came to that and Charles risked getting the pink slip or a proper beating. Or both.

"I wish I could," Charles said, truly longing to numb his nerves and his feelings in an ocean of liquor. He sent Erik a reassuring smile, trying to indicate that he was okay and in fact not in a state of complete emotional turmoil. Erik looked at him and nodded sympathetically, strumming his fingers against the counter top like he was thinking hard about something. Suddenly the candlestick telephone on the far end of the counter pierced the calm atmosphere with a loud ringing. Charles was almost relieved by the interruption and quickly walked the short distance to answer the call. Lifting the receiver off the switch hook he smiled a little, appreciative of the fact that Erik's boss had insisted on the bar having a telephone. It was expensive and it was fancy, but necessary in their line of business, he had been told. It was important to these furtive gentlemen to be able to contact each other across longer distances to warn each other if the police were coming or worse - if people like Frankie Yale should decide to step up the ongoing conflict. 

"26 John Street", Charles said to the switchboard operator, biting his lip. He was always a bit nervous to use the phone, afraid to drop it or damage it somehow. And speaking to someone that he couldn't see was strange. Also, of course, he never knew what news the caller might bring... Usually it wasn't good. The talking and clinking of glasses had almost ceased as soon as the phone rang, ensuring that the operator wouldn't suspect foul play at the address in case she listened in. There was a slight clicking sound and a male voice reached Charles' ear.

"I have message for the German from Mr. Wilde," the voice said, sounding quite hoarse in all its sternness. Charles bit his lower lip as nervousness set in full force. He had talked enough with Erik to know that Mr. Wilde was a pseudonym for Mr. Lovett, alias William J. "Wild Bill" Lovett - the leader of the White Hand Gang himself. The man was a true brute, despite him being very well-educated and articulate. An ill-tempered alcoholic who made even his own men nervous. Hell, once he even shot one of them dead for pulling a cat's tail because he thought it cruel towards the cat. A shiver ran down Charles' spine as he spoke into the transmitter.

"Of course, one second," he said and put the mouthpiece down a little, turning around to face the bar. His glance fixed on Erik.

"It's for you," he said and Erik's eyebrow shot up half an inch in surprise. Charles knew that Erik's nickname was "The German" due to the fact that this nationality was a bit unusual for White Hand Gang members who were primarily of Irish descent. For a moment Erik almost looked baffled. He then brushed some imaginary dust off his sleeve and got up from the stool, walking up to Charles to take the call. As the earpiece and mouthpiece shifted hands the two men's fingers brushed each other slightly and Charles immediately felt his cheeks flush. For a second everything was in slow motion and his heart seemed to skip a beat. Then the contact was broken and flustered he quickly retreated when Erik lifted up the earpiece and nodded at Charles that he would take it from here. Erik then sat himself down on a stool, making himself comfortable. With a slight smile Charles walked to the far end of the bar as Erik began to talk into the mouthpiece lowly. It wouldn't be proper to eavesdrop in any way even though Erik would probably tell him all about later as was usually the case. As the gang's regular bartender Charles probably knew pretty much everything about everyone. Letting out a small sigh Charles grabbed the checkered dish towel from his shoulder and began wiping the table tops, soaking up stale beer and droplets of liquor where he could. Kevin was somewhere in the back sorting bottles. In here it was filled with heavy smoke and Charles could feel his eyes watering a little bit, smarting from the chemicals in the air. Not many tables were unoccupied and he didn't want to bother the clientele, so he was quickly finished with cleaning tables and carefully he glanced up at the bar. Erik was still talking on the phone it seemed. Through the dense smoke and in the dim lighting it was hard to see clearly but it looked like Erik was almost slumping over the counter as he spoke into the transmitter. He then removed the earpiece and put the receiver back on the switch hook, ending the call with a slow movement. Charles frowned slightly. The chatting and clinking of glasses resumed as everyone returned to the conversation they had been having before the phone rang. Charles put the dish towel back on his shoulder and walked back behind the counter, carefully eyeing Erik up and down. The man was looking a little paler than usual, Charles thought. But it might as well be the smoke in here. Erik was scratching the nail on his thumb against the wooden counter top absent-mindedly, seemingly trying to remove a speck of imaginary dirt. Clearing his throat a little nervously Charles sent the man a smile.

"Need a drink?" he asked, trying to decipher the look on Erik's face. For a moment Erik just sat there, looking lost in thought. Exhaling deeply he rolled his shoulders back as if he was trying to focus. 

"Yeah..." he then said flatly and grabbed the newspaper from the counter top again, placing it in front of him. Contemplative Charles frowned a little as he quickly poured another shot of bourbon and put it on the counter. Without any expression on his face Erik grabbed the drink and downed it, not reacting to the burning sensation in his throat at all. Fidgeting with the end of the dish towel again Charles shifted his weight from one foot to another, not exactly knowing how to act. Clearly something was on Erik's mind, but he had no business asking unless Erik told him by himself automatically. Even though Charles was practically his confidant there were matters better left undiscussed, he thought. 

"Do you have a pencil?" Erik suddenly asked, looking down on the wrinkled front page of the newspaper. His voice sounded oddly flat and kind of monotone, yet there was a hint of something that Charles couldn't recognize. Frowning Charles nodded and ducked down, opening the cabinets under the counter, rummaging about for the jar of wooden pencils. Most of them were mere stubs or broken, but he knew that there were a few good ones in there too. Finally finding one he popped back up behind the counter and placed it in front of Erik. The man hadn't moved an inch - neither had his gaze. It was still fixed on the front page of the New York Times, even as he reached for the pen and grabbed it. Biting his lip Charles watched him nervously and wiped his forehead lightly with his sleeve. It was hot in here. And the density of the smoke had reached an almost suffocating level. 

"I need you to run an errand for me," Erik said lowly as he tore out a piece of the newspaper, scribbling on it with the pencil. Charles' eyebrows shot up in bewilderment. 

"What...?" he said, not sure if he heard him right. Erik kept scribbling on the newspaper and in the lamp light from above Charles could see the muscles in his jaws clenching. Nervously Charles licked his lip. He didn't want to annoy the man. 

"I need you to give this to Hannigan at the barber shop on the corner of Flushing Ave and Navy street," Erik said matter-of-factly and started folding the paper carefully. Charles furrowed his brow. The barber shop was almost a mile away and Charles had never been asked to run an errand before. He was used to fetching whiskies for Lovett's men, sure, but not delivering messages. But of course he couldn't say no. That would be unacceptable. And come to think of it he didn't really mind taking a stroll. 

"Alright...?" Charles said hesitantly, looking at Erik folding the piece of newspaper one last time. Erik then finally lifted his glance as he held out the folded paper towards Charles, gesturing for him to take it. For a few seconds they were locked in eye contact and Charles thought he saw something different in Erik's eyes. Usually they were that intriguing mix of cheerfulness and dangerous intensity. Now they looked dark and seemed almost sad somehow. Charles slowly reached out his hand to take the paper, not knowing what to say. But as he grabbed a hold of it Erik didn't let go. Instead he brought up his free hand and grabbed a hold of Charles' wrist, firmly but gently holding him in place. Charles nearly jumped by the unexpected physical contact, but there was a sincerity in Erik's piercing glance that made him stop and not move a muscle. Seconds seemed to tick by incredibly slow and Charles' heart felt like it did a somersault in his chest as Erik looked at him. The strong fingers that were closed around his wrist felt warm and intoxicating. The way Erik looked up at him with his gaze so serious and honest made Charles swallow hard. 

"And Charles... Don't read it," Erik then said, his voice stern in something that resembled a whisper. Charles nodded compliantly. 

"Of course..." Charles managed to say. Never in his life would he dream of reading a private message. Especially not from Erik. The man had to know that, he thought. The fingers around Charles' wrist slowly loosened their grip while Erik was looking at him, his glance full of something that could almost be interpreted as defeat. Charles swallowed once more. Before letting go Erik quickly squeezed Charles' wrist slightly. It was hard to tell if it was an encouraging gesture not to worry or a slightly threatening emphasis of the strict order not to read the note. Then their hands parted. Charles quickly tried to collect his thoughts and stuffed the folded piece of newspaper into his pocket. He discovered that his mouth was suddenly dry and his heart was beating faster.

"Go," Erik said. Charles only hesitated for a second before he nodded. The chitchatting and sharp sound of glasses clinking against each other only seemed like a distant background noise, detached from himself and Erik at that moment. Charles managed to send Erik a small smile. He felt like he could look at that man forever, drown in his gaze and be soothed by the mere sound of his voice. And he had to admit that was a little bit proud that Erik had actually asked him to deliver a message for him. That had to mean that the trust between them had grown even stronger. A little flushed Charles snapped out of it and stuck his head out in the back room where Kevin was still rummaging about with bottles. 

"Hey, cover for me, yeah?" Charles said and Kevin immediately looked up from the crates he was stacking on top of each other full of empty liquor bottles. He frowned slightly, wiping the sweat off his forehead.

"Umm, sure...?" he said, obviously surprised that Charles was abandoning his duties on a Friday, the place being stuffed and all. 

"It won't take long, I promise I'll hurry!" Charles beamed and turned his head back to see if anyone was getting annoyed with the lack of service. Everyone seemed quite content at the moment though, most of the guys deeply engaged in conversations and bragging about the newest extortion methods or latest robberies. Charles then noticed that Erik was still sitting in the exact same position by the bar, his face stiff and his blue eyes just looking at him. Erik then nodded at him impatiently, a clear indication for him to get moving. Charles immediately felt a bit guilty for apparently taking too long. Immediately he nodded back at Erik and hurried out into the back room to take the exit in the back. In the same moment Kevin walked past him and patted him on the back.

"Don't take too long now, pal," he said with a grin and snatched the dish towel from Charles' shoulder.

"I'll be needing that," he added and followed Charles as he walked into the small storage room. Carefully he removed the two wide planks covering the large hole in the brick wall which led to the adjacent building. Charles quickly stepped through the hole in the wall, careful not to trip on the bricks scattered here and there in the dark. He could hear Kevin whispering behind him.

"Hurry back," he said lowly as he put the planks back in place behind Charles, noise proofing the back exit of the bar the best he could. It would be no good if people could hear them. They might have a deal with the neighbor - a quite lucrative one for him as well - but you could never be too safe. The bar also had another exit out by the tables which the clientele usually came through but it was always wise having a second one. Both for discrete handling of everything from jag juice to tableware - and for safety. Should the police show up it was of uttermost importance to have a back exit. Only a fool would leave a speakeasy with only one way out, that was for sure. Charles was feeling his way through the dark, letting his fingers slide across the cold brick wall until he felt the familiar texture of the wooden hatch. For a moment he just stood there, listening for activity while bending in his knees in order not to hit his head on the ceiling. No one seemed to be around. Carefully he undid the hasp on the inside of the hatch, trying to make as little noise as possible. As he opened the wooden hatch he stuck his head out and took a look around in the dim hallway. No one was there. Quickly Charles climbed through the hatch, closing it as firmly as he could behind him. It looked like a harmless and totally normal hatch for house utilities, he thought. They really had made a good arrangement with the neighbor. It was an expensive arrangement alright, but a clever one. Charles quickly brushed off the dust that had landed on him on his way out and casually opened the door to the street, starting to walk south-east towards the barber shop. He couldn't help but wonder what the message was about since it had to be delivered in such haste. Biting his lip he looked around to make sure no one was watching him as he walked down the street, gently patting his pocket to make sure that the message was still there, firmly tucked in place. Charles smiled a little. It was getting slightly chilly as the clock approached midnight and Charles rubbed his arms through the linen shirt as he walked towards his destination. He let out a sigh, happy that he could breathe in fresh air without inhaling dense cigarette smoke. It did him good. He already missed Erik though and he realized that he had automatically picked up his pace slightly.


	2. Chapter 2

The moon was shining in the dark night sky through thin clouds while Charles walked past old buildings and the lamp posts were only somewhat illuminating the street. Youngsters were running about here and there celebrating their Friday night, holding hands or wrestling for fun. Even though Charles was walking at quite a fast pace and had already passed four streets crossing his path he figured that fifteen minutes had already come and gone. He hoped that Kevin could cope and that the clientele wasn't hazzling him too much - they could be a handful sometimes. It wasn't exactly a rarity that Charles would have to dampen the fires of the often bitter disputes which could suddenly erupt between the White Hand Gang's members. Charles shuddered slightly. When he got back everything would hopefully be just as he had left it. Finally he was able to see something that looked like a barber shop further down the street, dimly lit by the vague shining of the lamp posts. It looked abandoned. Which wasn't exactly strange at this hour. Licking his lip nervously Charles found himself standing on the corner of Flushing Ave and Navy street, looking around for any sign of life except for the teenagers passing by once in a while. Their yells and laughs resounded in the street, bouncing off the facades of the buildings in waves. Feeling a bit uneasy Charles bit his lip and figured that he would have to knock on the door to the barber shop. Even though it was completely dark in there. What if no one was there? Delivering that message seemed very important to Erik and he would hate to let the man down. Shaking his head slightly Charles exhaled slowly and finally lifted up his hand, knocking at the glass door to the shop. The sound seemed almost piercingly loud in his ears even though his knocking hadn't been hard at all. He then waited. The shop was still dark and there was no response. Charles swallowed as he looked around on the street - he had to look silly standing here past midnight knocking on the door of an obviously closed shop. Maybe it was the wrong address? Charles sighed. He then turned his head back to the door and jumped as he suddenly found himself staring directly at a face on the other side of the glass.

"Whoa...!" Charles burst out and stumbled backwards, nearly tripping over his own feet. Feeling his heart race he looked at the man behind the glass. He almost looked like a ghost. He had to be over seventy years old with thin, white hair and wrinkly, pale skin. Slowly the man was unlocking the door and stuck his head outside, looking at Charles skeptically.

"Who're you, dewdropper?" the man croaked, eyeing Charles up and down.

"You're not zozzled, are you?" he asked, narrowing his eyes a little. Wide-eyed Charles held his hands up defensively as he sent the man an insecure smile.

"No, sir... My name's Charles Xavier, I..." Charles began, but the old man cut him off, taking a step out into the street. 

"You smell like panther piss. If your drunken ass is here to steal from me, you better go chase yourself!" he said, lifting his walking stick threateningly as he leaned against the doorframe. Charles backed away slightly.

"Sir, I'm not here to steal from you...! Are you Mr. Hannigan?" he asked, still with his hands lifted slightly into the air to indicate that he wasn't a threat.

"One and only," the man muttered, eyes narrowed.

"I was sent by Erik Lehnsherr," Charles then said. By his words the old man immediately stopped and an inquisitive look appeared on his face.

"Lehnsherr sent you...?" he asked as if he wasn't sure if he had heard him right. Charles nodded.

"Yes, he told me to deliver this message to you," he said and stuck his hand in his pocket, pulling out the piece of folded newspaper. The old man's bushy eyebrows shot up and his expression seemed to soften slightly. Charles carefully approached him, handing him the paper. Shakily the man grabbed it and leaned against the doorframe once more, unfolding the paper curiously. He narrowed his eyes as he turned the paper to the side, seemingly trying to catch some of the light from the lamp post. 

"I need my cheaters for this..." he then said hoarsely and stuck the paper in his pocket as he retreated back into the dark shop, leaving the door open. As he rummaged about for his glasses Charles nodded and looked out on the street. The noisy teenagers seemed to have become even more noisy and he couldn't help but wonder if they had got their hands on some panther piss themselves, making all that racket. Then his ears picked up on some of the things they were shouting as a group of them ran past him. 

"There's been a shooting at John Street...!" one of them yelled. Straight away Charles felt his insides turn into ice, a hard knot of fear suddenly weighing him down like a ton of bricks. It couldn't be the speakeasy, could it? Frozen he noticed the sound of police sirens in the distance. With chills running through him Charles immediately thought of Erik. 

"Yeah, the mobsters have gone bonkers - I heard at least one has been shot dead...!" another teenager yelled, running past him. Automatically Charles sucked in a gulp of air by his words. Panic started to spread like wildfire in his mind and before he was even able to stop himself he started running. He sprinted feverishly down the street, not registering that the old man was coming back out of the shop. He didn't hear his hoarse yelling either in the chaos of shouting and running feet. 

"Wait, I'm supposed to take...!" the old man croaked, but the sound of his voice drowned in the surrounding noise as Charles ran down the street in the middle of the crowd of teenagers. Gravel and uneven cobble stones flew past under his feet and he gasped for air, his mind spinning with fear and worry. All kinds of horrible scenarios flashed before his eyes as he tried to run faster than his legs could carry him, making him almost stumble and fall. The streets that had passed him so quick and easily on his way to the barber shop were now passing by painfully slow. Too slow. His heart was pounding so hard in his chest that his vision blurred a little with each beat and at the same time he was only vaguely aware of the fact that his lungs were painfully wheezing. John Street seemed impossibly far away even though he was halfway there. The crowd of teenagers had fallen behind, their shouts fading as the distance between them and Charles grew, slowly but steadily. 

 

______________ 

 

Finally John Street wasn't far away. It was almost within reach and Charles kept running, completely ignoring the lactic acid burning in his muscles. But when he sprinted around the last corner he immediately dug his heels into the ground when he realized that police were everywhere. Tripping on a cobble stone Charles almost fell but he managed to grab a hold of a wrought iron fence, steadying himself. Completely out of breath he looked at the police men running to and fro, yelling out commands and seemingly trying to secure the site from curious bystanders. Charles' heart sank when he realized which building was the center of the police's attention - the speakeasy. Armed officers were running in and out of the hallway to number 26 and part of the wall to the adjacent building had been broken down, revealing some of the bar interior. Charles shuddered and had to rest his hands on his knees, his body finally letting him know just how hard he had been pushing it. Wheezing for air he coughed and realized that his mouth and throat were as dry as sandpaper. While he tried to get his breathing under control he cautiously looked around at the chaos. There was a fire truck parked close by... and an ambulance. In the same moment two doctors came out through the hole in the wall carrying a stretcher between them. It was covered in a white sheet, a human like figure hidden underneath. Small blotches of dark red spotted the linen and Charles' stomach immediately turned. He wanted to rush over there but for obvious reasons he couldn't - instead all he could do was watch and keep out of the way. Still heaving for air he tried to pick up on what the police officers were saying, but the noise from all the moving feet and various outbursts from bystanders made it difficult. He could only catch some bits and pieces of the sentences exchanged between the officers.

"... damn gangsters should be..."

"... got him good..."

"... inside job because..."

"... serves 'em good..."

The more Charles heard the more his stomach tied itself up in an ice-cold knot of fear. He couldn't stand the thought of anyone getting hurt and he had never actually seen a dead body until now. Again his glance quickly drifted over the blood covered sheet hiding the body as the doctors got it inside the ambulance and closed the doors. What if it was Erik?? A shiver ran through Charles. No. No, he couldn't think like that! Shaking his head to clear his mind he focused on the officers talking again. Apparently it hadn't been an attack from Frankie Yale or other rivals - it had been an inside job. The White Hand Gang had killed one of their own. They were notorious for their low morals and questionable loyalty towards each other, but Charles had never seen this coming. Not here. Not now. God, he prayed that Erik was alright. 

"Move along folks, nothing to see here!" an officer roared as he walked along the line of people eager to see more of the carnage. Charles swallowed. The wall of people didn't move much, but they were forced to part when the ambulance slowly made its way up the street. As people moved a teenager suddenly nudged Charles in the side with his elbow. Charles jumped.

"What a bloodbath, huh?" the teen said hoarsely and sent Charles an excited smile. The look on his face was more suitable for a child in an amusement park, Charles thought. Shocked he could only look at him, bewildered by the young man's lack of empathy. 

"I heard the coppers say it was a showdown between two mobsters," the teen continued and pointed at the hole in the wall.

"Shit, I never knew I could get giggle water around here! Hey, you got a gasper?" he asked and looked at Charles, still widely smiling as if he was having a great time. Charles blinked and turned his head slightly to look him.

"No, I don't smoke," he said lowly, trying to sound as collected as he could.

"Rhatz," the teen muttered and looked disappointed. Charles bit his lower lip. He noticed that he was almost visibly shivering even though it wasn't that cold. The police were packing up it seemed and the level of activity around the ruins of the speakeasy was decreasing. 

"Do you know who was killed?" Charles heard himself ask. His voice sounded odd and he quickly cleared his throat, eyes still fixed on the hole in the wall. The teen let out a huff.

"Nah, probably just some goon..." he said matter-of-factly. Charles felt the knot of fear in his stomach grow a little denser by his words.

"One of them survived though - but I heard he's got more holes in him than a Swiss cheese," he added with a laugh. Charles furrowed his brows and looked at the teen. His pimply face was shrouded in shadows, his features dimly lit by a nearby lamp post. 

"You know who...?" Charles asked lowly. The teen shrugged in the dark.

"Some guy in a blue suit," he said absent-mindedly. Charles immediately froze. His heart rhythm picked up speed so fast that he thought he was going to choke. He snapped his head to the side to look at the teeenager. 

"Are you sure??!" Charles heard himself burst out. The teen raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah. Why, you know him...?" he asked in a suspicious tone of voice. Charles heard himself suck in shallow gulps of air. His knees were suddenly feeling like jelly. 

"Where did they take him???" he asked feverishly, his gaze locked on the teenager. The young man narrowed his eyes a little as he looked Charles up and down.

"What do you care?" he asked and stuck his hands in his pockets as he leaned against the wall casually. Charles felt himself tense up.

"He's probably already dead anyway," he said and leaned the back of his head against the wall.

"One less of them to worry about I guess!" he added with a laugh. Feeling his mind overflowing with frustration, fear and anger Charles heard himself utter something that resembled a hiss as he turned and grabbed a hold of the teenager's shirt. Almost panicky he pulled him out from his leaning position against the wall, staring directly at him. His knuckles turned a milky white as they clutched the young man's shirt.

"Where did they take him?!!" Charles yelled desperately, suppressing the urge to shake him by his collar. The teenager's eyes were now wide in shock and he held up his arms defensively. Apparently he wasn't feeling as cocky as before. 

"Uh, I... I think the meat wagon took him to Kings County…!" he stuttered. Frustrated Charles let go of his collar, noticing that the people around him were looking at him and mumbling suspiciously amongst themselves. The teen nervously cleared his throat and corrected his wrinkled collar, trying to regain his composure without losing face in front of the crowd. Surprised by his own outburst Charles eyed the the young man up and down.

"I'm sorry..." he mumbled. He then quickly turned around and made his way through the crowd. Luckily it was dispersing now that the police had pretty much left the scene, so he didn't have to shove and push to get out on Pearl Street. How was he going to get to Kings County hospital from here? He had no money and Clarkson Avenue was four and a half miles to the south. It would take him at least an hour and a half to get there by foot. Panicky Charles felt himself slightly hyperventilating and he swallowed dryly, trying to calm his mind. Maybe it wasn't Erik? Maybe Erik had just fled along with the rest of them? But he had been the only one in the speakeasy wearing a blue suit...! Charles felt his eyes watering a little and frustrated he wiped at them with his shirt sleeve. Suppressing a sniffle he started to make his way down Pearl Street, half-running and then walking for a little while only to start running again. He wished that he had enough cash to pay for a taxi, but he only had a few coins in his pocket. With his heart racing painfully in his chest he prayed that he would get to Kings County fast... and he hoped that once he was there he would find out that it wasn't actually Erik who had been shot! Feeling the knot of fear in his stomach doubling in size Charles ran.


	3. Chapter 3

The streets and houses seemed to pass by painfully slow. Even though in reality they were flying by once Charles sprinted. But he couldn't sprint all the time. Shifting between jogging, walking and sprinting he felt his lungs smarting and his whole body aching from exertion. While the streets came and went in what seemed like an endless loop Charles desperately tried to control his mind spinning out of control. He constantly found himself thinking the worst. Seeing Erik's dead body covered in dried blood. Lifeless. Gone. Cold, pale skin in bluish shades, lit by white light from hospital lamps. Shivering Charles started running once more even though he didn't have the energy to do so, shaking off the thoughts the best that he could. Out of breath and wheezing for air he had finally passed through Crown Heights and had reached the last couple of streets. He only had to cross three more of them. With sweat running down his forehead and covering his entire body in a sheet of cold moisture he was gasping for air by now. His breathing sounded hoarse and ragged and once he stopped running in order to walk and give himself a necessary break he found himself trembling violently. Finally he could see the lights from the hospital cutting through the darkness in front of him and he felt like a small, extra spark of energy hit him just by the sight of it. Picking up his pace he sprinted around the corner of Clarkson Avenue, heart pounding mercilessly in his chest. The tall building towered over him as he approached it. Its red brick walls looked like they had been painted black in the dark, the dim light dispersed by the lamp posts being modest even for a hospital. Wheezing for air Charles stopped before he reached the entrance, realizing that he had to compose himself slightly before he could go in there. Next to a flower bed there was a bench and he quickly sat down on it, almost letting out an audible whimper when he realized how much his feet hurt. Out of breath he tried to produce just a tiny bit of saliva in his mouth, but it was completely dry along with his throat. Trying to calm himself down he glanced up at the building. The thought occurred to him that Erik might not even be in there. Maybe he was in the basement. In the morgue. With a shudder Charles shot up from the bench, cursing himself that he couldn't keep calm. Maybe Erik wasn't even here, he thought. Maybe he hadn't been the only one wearing a blue suit. Maybe the teenager hadn't remembered correctly. It could also be the wrong hospital for all he knew. Frustrated Charles ran a hand through his hair and inhaled deeply. Quickly he made up his mind and walked towards the entrance, ignoring his aching feet sending sharp shots of pain through him. Opening the doors Charles was almost blinded by the sudden light from the powerful lamps in the ceiling, shading his eyes briefly as he walked up to the receptionist. She was looking down at a bundle of papers on the desk and Charles took the time to correct his shirt a little, trying to look as proper as he possibly could. When the lady behind the desk heard his footsteps she looked up.

"Good morning, sir. Can I help you?" she asked and looked at him, eyeing him up and down. Charles cleared his throat a little, unsure if his voice would come out as a mere whisper due to the lack of saliva in his mouth.

"Umm, yes. Do you have a patient by the name of Erik Lehnsherr?" he asked, placing his hands behind his back so she couldn't see his fingers fidgeting nervously. The blonde receptionist cocked an eyebrow.

"I'm afraid visiting hours are over, sir," she said and looked down at her papers again. Charles swallowed. Was that a yes or a no? Nervously he bit his lower lip.

"Will he make it?" he heard himself ask in a thin voice. The receptionist looked up from her papers again, sending him an almost suspicious glance.

"What is your relation to Mr. Lehnsherr...?" she asked and put a stack of pencils into their proper place in a drawer.

"I'm a friend," he said, not knowing what exactly he should answer. The blonde raised her glance, looking up at him with eyebrows closely knitted together.

"I'm sorry, sir. But I cannot give out any information when you're not next of kin. Hospital policy," she said and sent him a small smile that was supposed to look friendly. Charles thought it looked more like a slight contortion, like she was wrinkling her nose at him. Again he felt frustration wash over him and his heart sank. For a moment he just stood there, shifting his weight from one foot to another, while the receptionist concentrated on some more paperwork. Nervously Charles licked his dry lips, contemplating what he should do. He couldn't just walk away. He couldn't. Not now.

"Of course. I understand...." he said hoarsely, earning a somewhat indifferent glance from the seemingly very busy receptionist. Charles swallowed.

"Can I use the restroom, miss?" he asked. The blonde woman was scribbling something on a paper, not looking up at him.

"Sure. Through the door to your right," she said in a monotone voice and nodded her head in the direction of the restrooms, still gazing at the papers. Relieved Charles sent her a smile even though she obviously couldn't see it.

"Thank you," he said and turned, walking across the lobby towards the door on his right. On his way there he turned his head to look at the receptionist, but all he could see was the blonde bun on top of her head. She was still focusing on the papers. Charles' glance darted around and immediately fixed on another door further down the lobby with a sign on it that read "Personnel Only". Swallowing hard he shifted direction and quickly walked towards it, careful to walk in a way that didn't make his footsteps sound too loud against the floor tiles. Looking over his shoulder he closed the distance and cautiously opened the door. Luckily it had well-oiled hinges and didn't make a sound. Quickly he glanced back at the receptionist. She was still buried in her paperwork. Charles hurried to walk through the door and closed it silently behind him. Wide-eyed he looked around in the corridor he was suddenly standing in. No one was here. Right in front of him was a door to a "Pathology Laboratory", and he looked around realizing that he had managed to find a passageway that led to multiple, different rooms. If he had been unlucky he might have found himself stuck in a broom closet or the like. He let out a relieved sigh. Carefully he started walking and passed a door with a sign that read "Etherizing" and another which simply read "Laundry". The place seemed abandoned, but there probably wasn't much to do at this hour. Charles realized that he didn't even know what time it was. Probably around three or four in the morning, he thought. In the same second the sound of voices hit his ears and he realized that he was standing in a cross section of corridors. To his left a corridor led to the "Accident Room" and to his right one led to "Operating Room". The sounds coming from in there made chills run down his spine and he hurried past the cross section, trying to think of anything else but those agonized voices and cries of pain. He found himself rounding a corner and in front of him were several rooms on each side of the corridor. It looked like he had found a passage of bed wards. Suddenly Charles saw movement in front of him and he stopped like struck by lightning, quickly pulling back behind the corner. Two men were coming out of one of the wards and he couldn't afford to be discovered yet. Listening closely he could hear them talking.

"Darn it, Mervin, I'm starving. You're coming or not?" one voice said, a hint of annoyance hidden in the otherwise cheerful tone of voice. With his heart trying to beat its way out of his ribcage Charles was plastered with his back against the wall around the corner, shamefully eavesdropping on the unsuspecting men's conversation.

"You know our orders are to stay here with..." the other man's voice began, but was cut off blatantly.

"Yeah, yeah, stay with the prisoner. No one's here! And where's he gonna go, Merv? The guy's a wreck!" the other man mocked, followed by quiet laughter from both of them. Charles' eyes shot wide open and his jaw dropped slightly as his heart skipped a beat. These men were officers! Guarding a prisoner! Could it be...? Could this prisoner possibly be Erik?? Suppressing a gasp Charles pressed himself even harder against the wall.

"Alright, alright..." the man named Mervin muttered. Charles felt tiny droplets of cold sweat starting to ooze from every pore in his skin. What if they walked this way?

"Now you're on the trolley! Let's go get some grub," the other officer said and the unmistakable sound of footsteps started to resound against the walls. Panicky Charles closed his eyes and prayed that they weren't coming his way. He wasn't supposed to be here and he had nowhere to run or hide. The operating room and accident room further behind him were definitely no option. But he noticed that the sound of the footsteps was gradually decreasing in volume. Surprised Charles opened his eyes, blinking in disbelief. They were walking the other way. Unable to believe his luck he waited for a few more seconds until the sound of footsteps had ceased completely. Slowly he stuck his head out and peaked around the corner to find that the corridor was empty. On shaky legs he walked towards the bed ward where the officers had been standing before, not knowing what to expect. His mind felt like it was going to explode, all kinds of possible and impossible scenarios flashing before his eyes. Who was going to be in there?? He hoped that it wasn't Erik. He hoped that he was sitting somewhere safe sipping on some cognac, blissfully unaware that Charles was out looking for him. And what if it really was Erik in there?? Suddenly it occurred to him that it might come across as a little strange that a mere friend had gone through all this trouble and had even snuck into a hospital just to see him? He was just his bartender for Christ's sake, Charles thought, and realized that he had come to a hold in the corridor. He might be Erik's confidant, but their relationship was still painfully platonic! Shaking his head he tried to clear his mind. It didn't matter. It didn't matter if Erik found out anymore. Charles had to know if he indeed was in there and if he was going to pull through - no matter the cost. The speakeasy was gone anyway and he would probably never see Erik again after this. He swallowed hard when he realized that this was it. Taking a deep breath Charles pushed the whirlwind of panicky thoughts aside and stepped into the bed ward. In the dim light from a bedside lamp a figure was lying on a bed a few feet away from him, but he had his head turned the other way, facing the window. Charles couldn't see who he was. Careful not to make too much noise and disturb the patient Charles walked closer. Judging by the movements of the man's chest he was asleep and Charles carefully moved around the footboard to get a better look. The moonlight was seeping in through the small window and illuminated the man's face. Charles' lips parted in a gasp and his hands immediately flew up to cover his mouth and muffle the sound. It was Erik. Trembling Charles immediately felt his eyes water up and he had to fight hard not to fall to his knees on the hospital floor. Frozen to the spot he just stood there, staring at Erik in disbelief while desperately trying to collect his thoughts and control his breathing. Then, without thinking much about it, he sat himself down in a chair next to the bed because he wasn't sure if his legs would give in. Covering his face with his hands Charles rested his elbows on his knees for a moment, trying to stop tears from flowing down his cheeks. How could this have happened? Why would someone shoot Erik? He might be a crook hanging with a bad crowd, but he was the kindest man he had ever met. Charles knew that he was liked amongst the White Hand Gang's members, always good for a joke or some cheering up. Unlike many of the other gang members he cared about other people's well-being. He actually cared. Why would they hurt him? Charles exhaled slowly, trying to calm himself down.

"Charles...?" a thin voice suddenly said. Charles jumped in his seat, his hands immediately leaving his tear-streaked face. He found himself locked in eye contact with Erik whose pale face was looking up at him, true surprise on display in his eyes. Mute Charles looked at him, not able to form any words.

"You're here...?" Erik asked hoarsely, obviously confused. Shame immediately washed through Charles and his fingers were fidgeting with the button on his shirt sleeve restlessly. What was he supposed to say? This was embarrassing.

"I... I just wanted to know if... If you were alright," Charles managed to say. He was thankful for the dim light camouflaging the tone of magenta he could feel suddenly covering his cheeks. Erik was looking at him with something that resembled bewilderment.

"You're not supposed to be here...?" he said and moved his leg underneath the covers slightly, causing him to cringe from pain. Charles swallowed, suppressing a second flow of tears trying to fight its way out of the corners of his eyes. Hopefully the dim light camouflaged that too.

"I'm sorry, I just... I'll..." Charles stammered, getting up from the chair to leave. Erik lifted his hand a little from its resting position on the sheet.

"No, stay..." he said, his glance still locked on Charles in surprise. Charles froze for a moment. Then he lowered himself back into the chair, clenching its arm rests hard as he did, unsure of how he should act or what he should say. His glance drifted over Erik's body and he realized that a big patch of bandages covered his left shoulder, stretching from his upper arm to his collarbone and some of his chest. Blotches that Charles knew were red had seeped through the white fabric but in this light they looked pitch black. The ball of fear in his stomach turned and twisted painfully.

"They got me good," Erik said, noticing Charles looking at his wound with wide, investigative eyes. Immediately Charles redirected his glance.

"Left me for dead," he continued and managed to send Charles a small smile. Fatigued the smile quickly faded and Erik licked his lips and closed his eyes as he exhaled deeply.

"Why...?" Charles heard himself ask in a whisper. Erik opened one eye and glanced at him shortly.

"What are you doing here, Charles?" he asked, his voice full of concern. Fidgeting with his sleeve button Charles' glance darted around.

"Didn't you deliver my message to Hannigan?" Erik then asked before Charles could muster up an answer. Charles looked at him and nodded.

"Yes, I did," he said lowly. He wanted to grab Erik's hand, to feel the warmth from his body. To make sure that he really was alive, that he really was there. This all seemed so surreal.

"I'm gonna kill that bastard then," Erik muttered under his breath, his jaw muscles clenching in sudden anger. Frowning Charles looked at him.

"What...? Why?" he asked, dumbfounded. Erik turned his head a bit more to look at him. In the moonlight he looked so pale, Charles thought.

"He was supposed to take care of you," Erik then said shortly and closed his eyes. A sigh escaped him. Charles' eyebrows shot up in confusion.

"Take care of me?" he asked, completely unable to understand what Erik was going on about. Maybe he was delusional, maybe he had a fever? Charles wanted to reach for him and feel his skin, but managed to stop himself. Or maybe he had been given painkillers. Charles knew that those could really mess with a man's head.

"Yes. Keep you safe," Erik then said and sent Charles a tired and almost sad glance. Charles furrowed his brows, still utterly perplexed.

"Safe? Safe from what?" Charles asked and his lips parted in a little gasp when he felt Erik's hand suddenly grabbing a hold of his. Incredulous he stared down at the broad hand closing around his own. Almost feverishly he blinked a couple of times, making sure that he wasn't hallucinating. Erik squeezed his hand weakly and sent him a sad smile.

"I wasn't the target, Charles. You were," Erik then said. A chill ran down Charles' spine and he glared at Erik wide-eyed, unable to believe what he was hearing.

"But...?" he started, but Erik interrupted him.

"Someone has been ratting us out. Lovett decided it had to be you," he said softly but with an anger burning in his voice. Charles' lips parted but no sound came out. He felt completely bewildered and beyond scared. So that was what the phone call had been about. A shiver went through Charles and he felt Erik's hand squeeze his again.

"So I sent you to Hannigan," Erik said.

"You saved me..." Charles said under his breath. Again tears were trying to fight their way out of his eyes and with his free hand Charles wiped at them desperately. He felt incredibly vulnerable... and incredibly guilty. Erik was here because of him. Charles might as well have put that bullet in him himself.

"Why did you...?" Charles said, but his voice cracked and he trailed off, gulping down the sobs that tried to make their way out of his mouth. To his surprise Erik let out a small laugh.

"Why do you think I sit at that bar every single Friday? It's not for the giggle water, I can tell you that," Erik smiled, a slight insecurity present in his glance. He then turned serious. The moonlight illuminated his face in blue shades as he looked at the younger man by his side, an odd sincerity flashing in his eyes.

"I... I love you, Charles," he said. Charles stopped breathing. It was like a bomb had gone off in the bed ward. Unsure if his heart had stopped beating he looked at Erik, shock painted on his face. The moonlight reflected in Erik's eyes like a serene blue and white ocean that almost knocked the wind out of Charles. Silence fell. The seconds that passed seemed to slow down.

"I love you too, Erik...!" Charles gasped, finally clenching back the hand holding his. The tears were now flowing freely down his cheeks and he didn't even notice or care. It felt like an unbearable weight had been lifted off his shoulders, a weight that he had been carrying for so long. Erik's lips parted in a broad smile, his white teeth shimmering in the pale light from the moon and he motioned to sit up, but immediately grimaced in pain. He let out a small groan as he fell back down onto the pillow.

"No, stay still!" Charles burst out, jumping out of the chair. Erik exhaled deeply and glanced up at Charles looking a little guilty but still with a skew smile on his face.

"I'm sorry, I just... I wasn't sure if you felt the same way," he beamed, still clenching Charles' hand, his grip becoming a little firmer. Unable to believe what he was hearing Charles let out a small huff mixed with a grin as he caressed the skin on Erik's hand with his thumb. He felt warm. Alive. Real. This was real. His heart was fluttering in his chest and slowly he sat back down in the chair, not letting go of Erik's hand.

"I do. I always did. But I didn't think you..." Charles said and trailed off. For a moment they just looked at each other, locked in eye contact as Charles gently brushed his thumb against Erik's skin. It almost felt like their minds were melting together at that moment, every single thought and emotion revealed and shared without a word. Charles felt whole. He finally felt whole. Then his glance settled on the bloody bandages on Erik's chest and the knot of fear in his stomach stirred once more.

"Don't die on me," Charles whispered hoarsely, clenching Erik's hand desperately. Erik sent him a weak smile.

"The bullet passed right through, didn't hit anything vital," he said matter-of-factly and grimaced a little as he turned his head a little more to look at Charles.

"I'll be fine," he said. Charles bit his lip and closed his eyes for a moment.

"If you catch an infection, you'll..." Charles said, but stopped mid-sentence. He couldn't bear to think of it. They both knew that a bullet wound left you with a fifty-fifty chance of surviving.

"Just... don't die on me," Charles said, looking at Erik with true fear in his blue gaze. Erik smiled once more.

"I won't. I promise," he said. He sounded so certain.

"Besides, I can't. Not now," he added and grinned, looking at Charles with an affection in his eyes that turned his entire body into jelly. Not able to suppress a smile despite of the severity of the situation Charles nodded in agreement. A small sniffle still escaped him and he wiped at his eyes with the back of his free hand. This was somehow bittersweet. Finally his dream had been realized and the burden of forbidden love had been lifted off his shoulders... It was more than he could ever want. Yet here they were, stuck in a hospital ward on the verge of losing it all. Erik's smile faded a little as he watched Charles' facial expression and he clenched his hand once more, reassuringly. As he did he broke Charles' chain of thought and the younger man looked at him.

"Who was killed?" Charles then asked lowly, realizing that he had forgotten about the dead body under the blood-stained sheet in the midst of all this. He felt Erik stiffen a little. For a moment there was silence and the shadows covering Erik's face seemed to turn a deeper shade of blue.

"When they were done with me... They turned to the only other person who might know," Erik said softly, his voice laced with compassion and regret. Charles immediately let out a small sob.

"Oh, my god, no... Kevin," he said and shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Charles," Erik said and swallowed, watching as Charles fought to compose himself. He could almost visualize the scene that must have taken place... and his stomach turned. Kevin hadn't known anything, yet still they had killed him. And he was definitely no rat. Angry Charles closed his free hand into a fist, unable to shake off the visual of the bloodstained sheet on the stretcher. It wasn't fair, it wasn't right. Trembling he exhaled deeply, trying to calm his mind and focus.

"You have to go back to Hannigan," Erik suddenly said. Lifting his glance Charles shook his head.

"I can't leave you," he said, still brushing Erik's hand with his thumb in small, soft circles.

"You have to," Erik said resolutely, ignoring the fact that Charles was still shaking his head stubbornly.

"Charles... Please," Erik said, his glance full of worry.

"If you can find me so can they," he said and loosened his grip a little around Charles' hand.

"They're looking for you too, Charles, and they're not going to stop," he added, sadness painted on his face. Charles bit his lip, feeling indecisive. He felt torn. He wanted to stay. But he knew that Erik was right. And what was going to happen when the police officers returned? They would definitely not let him stay, that was for sure...

"What are we going to do?" Charles asked, lower lip quivering slightly. Erik mustered up a smile.

"We are going to do the only thing we can. You go back to Hannigan. He'll keep you safe while I recover. And once they take me to the slammer I'll be out on bail in no time... And then we'll leave," he said, lightly starting to let go of Charles' hand.

"They can't charge me with anything other than being illegally drunk anyway," he added with a small smile. Charles swallowed. Then he furrowed his brows, holding on to Erik's hand, not letting him let go.

"We'll leave? Leave where?" he asked, desperation building inside of him. He knew that the White Hand Gang had connections pretty much everywhere on the continent... They would be looking over their shoulder for the rest of their lives. Erik 's face brightened in a broad smile.

"I know Germany is quite charming this time of year," he said and let out a small chuckle when he saw the surprised look on Charles' face. Then he suddenly turned serious.

"I mean, only if you want to," he hurried to say, looking at Charles hesitantly. A mix between a laugh and an offended huff escaped Charles and he looked at him while finally wholeheartedly returning a smile.

"Of course I want to!" he burst out with a grin and carefully reached out his free hand to touch Erik's forehead. His skin felt warm and dry - not sweaty or feverish - and relief washed through him. It was a good sign. But there was still a long way to go and nothing was for certain.

"No backing out?" Erik asked, smiling broadly with his head resting on the pillow in the semi-darkness.

"No backing out!" Charles said and caressed the side of Erik's face, getting up from the chair.

"It's a date then," Erik said, a slightly mischievous smile decorating his lips. He seemed to be radiating at this point, happiness clearly being the most dominant emotion right now, even in all of this turmoil. Charles chuckled as he leaned down over the bed a little, his fingertips tracing along the contours of Erik's face.

"Can I kiss you?" Charles asked carefully, almost as if he was afraid to physically hurt the man lying below him. Erik smiled, the moonlight making his teeth glisten.

"Please do," he said and closed his eyes as Charles leaned down further. Then he felt his lips softly meeting his own. Unable to control himself Erik let go of Charles' hand and cupped his face, drawing him closer into the kiss, completely ignoring the pain shooting out from the wound in his shoulder. The sensation of Erik's lips against his own made Charles shiver and his mind was spinning in the most delightful way imaginable. A soft moan escaped both of them as their longing and frustration evaporated like dew before the sun. It was wonderful. Their kiss seemed to last forever, yet it was over all too soon when the sound of distant voices suddenly reached their ears. Quickly their lips parted, Erik still cupping Charles' chin as he looked at him.

"Go," he whispered. Feeling himself hesitating Charles grabbed Erik's palm with both of his hands and kissed it. The tenderness of the kiss made Erik almost melt into the mattress and he felt like his only job in this entire world was to be with him. To be with Charles. This was what he was meant for. What he had always been meant for. Gently Charles broke the kiss and squeezed Erik's hand. This was it. He had to get out of here or everything might be compromised. Exchanging a nod and a smile they then let each other go reluctantly. Breaking the physical contact instantly left an aching void, but they both knew that it couldn't be any other way. Quickly Charles walked for the door, looking at Erik over his shoulder - he had to hurry, because the voices down the corridor were getting slightly louder. Casting one last glance at Erik he sent him a broad smile - and before he turned the corner Erik returned the smile, his eyes shimmering in the dark with happiness and fulfillment. Charles then finally turned the corner and ran down the corridor, away from the voices. Making his way back through the personnel passageway, he barely avoided detection when the officers returned to their post in front of Erik's bed ward. With his heart beating rapidly and doing somersaults in his chest Charles could help but smile because there was no doubt anymore, no missing answers or forbidden thoughts. He had never been this happy. But he had never been this scared at the same time either. He didn't fear for his own life anymore, only for Erik's. But the certainty he had seen in the man's eyes made him feel like an odd sense of calm had settled inside him, replacing the icy knot of fear in his stomach with something warm and loving. He loved Erik. And Erik loved him back. And for once it wasn't an impossible dream.


End file.
